Don’t call your love a help. Don’t tell me you pity me.
If even Love came to me like this, how shall I accept your feelings.
What would be left of me if I could reach you only because my sadness made me worthy of light.
I can choose such love of yours only if choose to never part with this pain that I have.
Though I wanted you beside me you are beside me because I can’t walk, because I am running into walls when you leave my hand. And I keep getting new bruises, fearing how your heart might change if I learn to smile.
“We must break our bones and lives to create another spark – this is what we owe to this world” the voice on other side of my dear old wall told me, told us all again. And because we must do something about it, we kept ordering another heart, another mindset, another way, another “desperate somehow” till our hands never felt comfortable with anything that is not new. Would we stop, could we stop if someone told us that we are more than our failures? I wonder even if I could believe those words I wonder if such words mean much in this world.
Even if there was another place to start a life that doesn’t run over me every morning on the tracks that keep changing their shape and place, tracks where I am just a new layer of metal, another layer of blood that won’t give up, that cannot die yet, saying hello to the ones who wake up beside me as if death is another sleep for which they cannot lose time. Even in that place, I feel I would suffer trying to define and find my place even if no one asks me to.
All the spring’s color have been molten and poured into the broken casts of summer. They seep into ground, into autumn leaves that falls in every space between you and me. They sing something for us again as we shiver and stop ourselves from giving in, as you hold back from saying every word that can fix me (at least for now). I google how to kill feelings that don’t let me eat or speak or smile. I bite my lips trying to bury the words that would shine in your colors, if you were to look at me. If you were to look at me, you would be only sad to know how unchangeable my heart is.
You tear sheet after sheet, rip them out of calendar and hand them to me. We burn 11 months, saving only December, because you never know. There is a knock on our door, someone who is lost brings in the chilled wind, the fine dust of snow, and voices celebrating something we will never understand. I wait for you to come back and settle into you warm sleep. I sit at the foot of the sofa, and think about the one time I dreamt of death. I was looking out of window waiting for you and you came back with new pair of eyes that never settled on me, and when I was almost about to cry you moved towards me with a dying sparrow in your trembling hands. It lay on its side with its soft violent gasp for breath that were perfectly in sync with mine.
I wanted to play this winter song on the brightest day of spring. Maybe at least in that way I will be able to mourn for something that I should have been happy to leave behind. But the snowflakes in me drift into the world and become butterflies of someone else’s heart. All my songs now belong to sun, they belong to scent of summer fruits, they fall as unpredicted rain on the windows I closed just in time. Anyway, I had to learn this sooner or later. How can I keep believing in my own feelings, on the things that were supposed to never change, never melt after losing half of my winters to the green winds of change. As I place all my “old dreams that don’t suit the new me” away from my reach, I wonder if the only way to save the dignity of my old sincerity is to lock it way from my own skeptical, mocking eyes?
Now that I have grown in height and I cannot forget my name even if I want to, no one comes looking for me when I go missing.
When I go missing, when I finally succeed in getting lost I buy a new plant, walk through strange streets, come back home with with my worn out heels and new pictures on phone, takeouts from restaurants whose name feels weird on my lips, knowing more roads that can take me home.
I sit defeated and happy as I realize getting lost means nothing if I can breathe just fine in this world, if everything here can be my home.
But still there is sadness in me for losing everything that only that small world could hold.
There is a kind of happiness that eludes me, a kind of fear that grips me in my sleep, a kiss that makes me fear losing everything I shouldn’t treasure. A person who kills me every second by loving me, by giving up his hollow self to my hungry mouth. A person whose sadness, only sadness is mine. A person who has loved too much, been hurt too much, who now substitutes pity, anger, jealousy, and need in place of true love (what is true love anyway?). I remain awake trying to make this equation work (what is true love anyway?). I weigh my heart against yours and I realize what a waning moon feels like. I collect such new feelings without blaming you (what is true love anyway?). All my treasures are feelings I would accept only by your hands, however cruel and hurtful they may be.
There are no dances waiting for us, no innocent moments of sunlight, no darkness or headlights striking our windows, nothing worth the wait. We are stranded here in this life. We are stranded on a planet far away from our home- a home that becomes more and more beautiful, the more we are convinced there is no way back.
Here the days are longer than our lifespan combined. Here we record 50 goodbyes to ourselves a day. The air, the hurricanes, the rain, the smile, this peace of mind are all just luminescent chemicals that delivers more than its promise of a near death exhilaration.
The rainbow of lies is our constant sky the friend we cannot live without. It is the only thing that helps us live with the dust of betrayal that settles on the clothes left out to dry- another thing we much dust away and forget, another thing we must do to be called a “good sport”.
I sit here knitting another version of my beautiful glorious past, another tribute to the world filled with rare ordinary and you sit across me complaining about what the world has come to as you paint my brain to match the new you- one less insecurity in this perfect world.
She just laughed and said “you are not really intelligent, you know that right?” as she packed her bag, making space for her only notebook, with difficulty. I wonder if she really needs all those the things. She is not a careful person, I know that because her list of priorities is horizontal- everything is important, everything is equally dispensable. I hear a song breaking at the bottom of her lungs, when she talks of the new thing that she will love forever when I know she won’t.
She lets me know for my own good “geniuses are not made by effort, love doesn’t happen by hard work, quit swimming and struggling when you are on land.” She takes me by hand, teaching me how to walk, teaching me her pace. Her pace unsettles me. She gives cruel names to my innocent actions as she smiles. She smiles at me while I wait for my forever to end. And only because I hate myself for not wanting to love her sometimes I smile back.
I wonder how far my determination can take us. As she finally boards the train home, after missing out on a few, she says “stop struggling, when i am with you, i know your heart, even when you don’t. it hurts to see you like this, things will eventually fall in their place.” I wonder if she is pushing herself, within the limits of who she is, to save something of us, to save something of me. I wonder how she can love me, if she knows how petty my heart is. And because I do not know the answers to her, I wait for us to fall into the places. I think of her and find it easier, this wait.
With my back to the my cold family name the metallic alphabets printing hard on my clothes, I stand with my feet half out of my pretty shoes – with my painted nails still hidden in the skin of another animal, my hands revolving the beautiful replica of Saturn around the plastic heart on my elaborate key chain- a stage of its own. I stand and wait for you to open your door on the floor above. I hear a faint click, a phone ring, footsteps running away from the world (why do I feel such sadness when I hear that?), a door left open (to everyone but me) I sit in the middle of my living room floor staring up, at the underside- the creeping mold of the stage where I played your lover, your nemesis. It is cruel and incomprehensible that we can still live, take calls, make jokes, eat, and still have the want to live. After hurting ourselves and the world for the sake of love, after all that, is this is it? When you find your room, your world without me which direction does your heart turn towards? Do forget from time to time that we are supposed to forget each other? When I find my loneliness becoming greater than me, when it starts spilling out of me on dinner table, when it makes me lose my mind, am I allowed to let go of you? Is this what this distance, this decision means? I hear your window open, I hear your excited voice (why do I feel color of anger filling me again?). I wonder if you have really found your new life or is this an act you have put for my benefit? Your kindness could only be in my head, as was your love. TV drowns your voice again and I thank all the accidents, all the things out of my control, everything that moves us away from each other. Otherwise, I never could.